Maybe next time.

October 27, 2013 § 11 Comments

Diner table.Maybe next time I’ll be the kind of woman who is comfortable calling a stranger “hon.”

One who fulfills practical dreams by pulling a packet of the blue artificial sweetener out of an apron pocket when the pink just won’t do.

I’ll have a warm smile and an easy command of small talk like, “Gonna be a real scorcher today,” or, “Is that a new hairdo, Miss Evelyn?”

I’ll live comfortably in a world dominated by nouns I can pick up in a hand or run a sponge over. To put the world in order I’ll wipe the table, center the sugar tower and ketchup bottle, flip the sign to OPEN and unlock the door.

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October 20, 2013 § 9 Comments

Martha the last Passenger PigeonI sometimes feel like Martha, the last passenger pigeon, living out the final days of her uniqueness alone in a small cage at the Cincinnati Zoo.

Far from vanishing, my species is overwhelming the earth–just as Martha’ s once obliterated the sky,

But my species is undergoing a voluntary and collective evolutionary change that is making the kind of human I am seem quaint, a relic, irrelevant.

Humanity and technology are evolving together. We led it, now it leads us.

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God’s storage shed.

October 12, 2013 § 16 Comments

Redbug and fleabane.He keeps his stuff in a bunged up metal shed down a dirt road.

The roof is shaggy with bindweed—morning glories if you want the pretty name.

Fleabane grows tall around its rust-bitten sides.

The doors hang crooked and they’re held together with a chain and a bicycle lock. A pair of bolt cutters would get you in easy.

Seen from the outside it’s not big enough to hold more than a tractor, a couple of saw horses and an electric fan with the plug chewed off by some resident rodent.

But if you get inside you will find it is big enough to hold, well, everything he can’t part with.

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I have news for you.

October 6, 2013 § 6 Comments

Walter Cronkite.Remember when we got the news twice a day?

In the morning it arrived with the thump of a paper hitting the stoop. We read it as we drank our coffee.

In my home, the thump was loud.

Our paper was the New York Times, the paper of record, all the news that was fit to print.  Our only-modestly religious family invested much of our faith in The Times. Its stories were better vetted than the Bible.

At the beginning of each day, The Times let us know how the world outside our door was doing, it kept us up with the rest of our human family.

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